


An Experiment On The Effects Of Reality Jumping

by ghosty_vodka



Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Steampunk, Attempted Suicide, Basically what if Wilson was pulled into steampunk london instead of fucking hell, Internalized Homophobia, It gets out of control, Kind of mindfuck-y, London, Lots of mysteries, M/M, Major Depressive Disorder, Maxwell is A Bit Not Good, Multiple Realities, Murder Mystery, Original Character Death(s), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-WWI, Prosthetics, Self-Inflicted Starvation, Steampunk Mafia, Veteran Wilson, Victorian Science Fiction, Wilson is a smol sad bean, anti-social behavior, prepare your asses, things never go as planned, this is one long ass novel., tuberculosis
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-01
Updated: 2017-08-01
Packaged: 2018-12-09 21:00:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11676987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghosty_vodka/pseuds/ghosty_vodka
Summary: The Voice has a face and the face has a body and the world is a bunch of realities layered like a book and Wilson is the bookmark





	An Experiment On The Effects Of Reality Jumping

**Author's Note:**

> what would you do if a stranger through the radio offered you salvation?

Wilson had found himself in all sorts of dangerous situations. He’d been a medic during The Great War, running through muddy trenches and dragging dead bodies from under the fields of barbed wire. He made it back from the war just in time to fall victim to Tuberculosis, nearly dying, and left as soon as he was healthy enough to live alone in New England with nothing but a radio and letters from his war buddies to connect him to the outside world. He’d had enough of humanity as a whole. He wanted peace and quiet. He wanted to be alone--

He wanted to die.

Bottles of bootlegged whiskey covered the floor of Wilson’s bedroom and he kicked them aside, heading straight upstairs to his lab.

Hand on the doorknob, he realized that he was famished, having not eaten since almost two weeks ago (it was easier for him to skip meals altogether and just drink water until the pain became unbearable than to take the time to actually cook) and that his strength was going in waves, he decided to eat the rest of his jerky.

_Maybe after my work is finished, I should set some traps and catch some squirrel. Five pelts can get me a hen._

The jerky didn’t really have a taste to Wilson. He knew that it was smoked venison and that it was flavored with salt and rosemary, but it tasted bland to him. Everything tasted bland to him.

With a crackling sound, the radio in the kitchen turned on by itself. Wilson barely gave it a glance and bit off a piece of the meat.

“Glad to see you awake and eating, pal. Did you get the parts?”

Wilson mulled over what The Voice said for a few moments before swallowing and responding. “No. The repairman was unwilling to accept my offer.”

The Voice said nothing but Wilson knew he was still there, so he said, “I think I can make my own engine if you give me a week longer.”

“I can give you three days.”

Wilson frowned. If he ate all of the food he had left, which wasn’t very much, he’d have the energy to double down on his work and hopefully set the traps by the evening on the fourth day.

“You were always so generous,” Wilson said sarcastically. He washed down the last of his jerky with a glass of water and headed upstairs. He heard the radio downstairs switch off and the one in his study switch on.

He wondered how The Voice did that. Perhaps the British were way more technologically advanced than what he’d been lead to believe during the war.

The Voice began talking to him as soon as he entered the room. “...For Bernadette’s sake, Higgsbury! You told me you had stopped drinking!”

Wilson glanced guiltily at a jar full of moonshine. “It was a gift.” He muttered. “For Christmas. It would’ve been very rude of me to decline. Besides. It steadies my hands.”

“It makes your melancholia worse is what it does!” The Voice scolded irritably. “Remember what happened last time you had too much?”

Wilson remembered. His wrists were permanently scarred from that suicide attempt. He picked up the remainder of the moonshine and poured it out of the window. The Voice made a sound of pleasure.

“You’re learning fast.” The Voice praised. “Soon you won’t have to worry about alcohol.” There was a dangerous purr in his tone and Wilson found that he was okay with it. “Soon you won’t have to worry at all.”

Wilson supposed that he should’ve asked, but he kept his mouth shut. The Voice knew things that he did not. The Voice was smarter and had better things to do than to explain simple things to him. The Voice was, quite simply, God, and Wilson was his devout disciple. If The Voice wanted something, Wilson delivered.

There was a lull in the conversation and Wilson wondered what The Voice looked like. If he had a face.

If he was real.

“Of course I am.” The Voice said.

“Do you think you could’ve made this up yourself?”

It was unlikely.

“Do you have a name?” Wilson asked, polishing a wrench. “I’m tired of always referring to you as ‘The Voice’”

“My name is not relevant.” The Voice replied.

Wilson shrugged off his coy behavior. An hour later, he wondered if he’d overstepped an unknown boundary and embarrassment began to tingle at the base of his spine. Before it could manifest, there was a knock at the door.

Wilson stumbled down the stairs and opened the door. Standing on the other side was the repairman from yesterday, holding the mechanical part in his hands. He looked pale and afraid. He stared at Wilson for a moment before shoving the part against his chest before fleeing down the worn path of Wilson’s driveway.

 _I’ve seen stranger things._ Wilson thought before heading back inside. He brought the gift upstairs to the lab.

"I have delivered.” The Voice told him. “Now open the back and attach the wires to the cannibalized radio.” 

* * *

 

The door was finished. If you could call it that. It looked more like some kind of wrecked machine from the war with a bunch of light bulbs and wires attached for effect.

“Excellent!” The Voice crooned. “Now flip the switch.”

Wilson reached for the switch then stopped. Did he want to do this?

Of course, he did.

He pulled the lever.

All at once, the air filled with hissing steam and the bulbs began to haphazardly flash. The steam wrapped around Wilson like the eye of a hurricane, drawing up around him. Soon, everything became white and Wilson’s already weak lungs began to struggle for breath. He let out a cough and bent over. It reminded him of the trenches and the gas and the steadily dying screams of his brothers-in-arms--

Everything went black.


End file.
